


sun come ease me in

by solizabeth



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: 2019/2020 season, Breathplay, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Light Choking, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Rough Sex, Spanking, everyone needs to leave dylan strome alone, the plot here is largely how dumb and in love they are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21591634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solizabeth/pseuds/solizabeth
Summary: “I don’t -shit- I don’t want to fuck Dylan.”Jonny's voice is amused and dark. “You sure about that?”Patrick nods against the pillow, bracing himself to be hit again. He feels pulled tight, stretched, like the skin of a drum. It’s intense, when he feels like this, like he’s floating; disconnected and untethered.Come on,he thinks, just one more time. Just one more.(or: dylan asks patrick, loudly, if he'd fuck him. for scientific purposes, obviously. no one is more interested in the answer than jonny. he's dying to know, actually.)
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 34
Kudos: 312





	sun come ease me in

**Author's Note:**

> any mistakes are my own. 
> 
> enjoy!

Thing is, Dylan Strome isn’t _un_ attractive. 

He’s objectively hot. Tall. Nice hair. Stupid humour and dumb smile. 

Patrick likes the guy, sure. Thinks he’s fucking funny and good at hockey and like, people definitely think he’s cute, or whatever, but it doesn’t mean Patrick wants to fuck the guy. 

Actually, that would be pretty fucking weird seeing as Patrick has inadvertently adopted him as some sort of pseudo kid. Patrick’s not sure when he became the hockey mom but he did - he is - and he sort of doesn’t hate it. 

For someone who was never - has never been - perceived as a role model, it’s nice to have a bunch of kids who look up to him, or whatever. Patrick kind of liked taking the rookies under his wing, in the beginning. Thought it was a good way to prove himself, to impart some wisdom or some shit. He liked watching the way their eyes would glaze over and light up all at once when they met him or when they watched him skate for the first time. He liked when they realised he was just another guy, normal as shit, probably really fucking boring and a huge disappointment in every non-hockey aspect of his life. He could still light it the fuck up on the ice, though. And if he could aid the rookies, even in some small way, and help them through the shit show that was your first years in the NHL, well, he was happy to. 

He still liked it, but now it’s more ... expected. Being a role model at first was exciting, different, new; now it was part of his job. An expectation. Guide the way, set the path, pass down the baton or some shit. Even though he kind of fucking hated when they tried to spin that, in the media or anywhere else, ‘cause he was still Patrick fucking Kane and he was going to be playing hockey till his body gave out. Which was a few good years away, at least. 

So, whatever. He was fine with being the hockey mom. He’d been, like, marginally put out he wasn’t the _dad_ , but apparently that was Jonny and like - fuck Jonny, because of course he was. 

Patrick could think of some pretty solid arguments as to why Jonny was the mom but, no one seems to want to listen to him anyway. 

But the point here is, what Patrick is really trying to get at, is he’s like Dylan’s weird, sort of, kind of, _mom_? And thinking about the kid in any way that isn’t strictly _DudeKidBroMate_ is just - no. 

So when Dylan slams down his beer, enough to startle Patrick out of his conversation with Drake and Duncs and asks, or, demands, “Kaner, would you fuck me?” Patrick is understandably alarmed. 

Or, well, shocked. For so many reasons. 

_So_ many reasons. 

Patrick’s first instinct is to glance over at Jonny, because of course it is, but he’s pretty sure Jonny didn’t even hear. Or if he did he doesn’t care, doesn’t even glance away from his discussion with Robin and Crow. Which Patrick imagines is quite the fucking discussion. Patrick loves his goalies, his beautiful, wonderful goalies, but he doesn’t really know how to talk hockey with them. Unless Jonny’s not talking hockey. Unlikely. 

“Uh.” 

Dylan’s looking at him expectantly, his face serious, although he always kind of is. He could be asking for the time or the answers to the universe and the tone would probably be exactly the same. 

“How much you had to drink, Dyl?” He asks finally, nodding at the beer in the kid’s hand. 

Dylan frowns, like he doesn’t understand the question. Moron. “What? Oh - no. I’m not drunk.” 

Patrick doesn’t believe that for a second. “Where’s Brinksy?” Because seriously, Patrick _really_ doesn’t want to be having this conversation and he needs his other kid to come save him, as usual. Patrick relies on Alex and Dylan taking care of each other, most of the time. Except he’s pretty sure Alex is off on the dance floor right now and that’s less than ideal. Although natural instinct will probably cause one to start looking for the other any minute now. 

“No, no, we don’t need kitty cat.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes and Drake laughs next to them. Okay, definitely wasted. 

Patrick sighs. “Alright, let’s get you some water.” 

“No!” Dylan almost cries, like a fucking child. “No, I’m being serious. Would you fuck me? Am I fuckable?” 

He’s being _way_ too loud and Patrick feels it, feels the moment his skin flushes with heat and goosebumps raise up his forearms. He feels uncomfortable, too hot and tight and it’s not because of stupid fucking Dylan Strome, it’s because he _knows_ Jonny is staring. 

Patrick looks over again, and shit - yeah, that’s gotten Jonny’s attention. 

Jonny raises an eyebrow when he has Patrick’s gaze, as if to say, “ _yeah Patrick, would you fuck Dylan?”_ And Patrick wishes he could set him on fire just with his eyes. A skill Patrick has wanted but has sadly never been able to master ever since 2007. 

Jonny stares at Patrick and Patrick stares at Jonny. 

Shit. 

“Kaner!” Dylan whines next to him, poking a long finger into Patrick’s bicep. Prick. 

Patrick forces himself to drag his gaze away from Jonny. He’s probably going to pay for that. 

“What, you little shit?” He grunts, saving his rough voice with a swig of beer. 

“Do you think I’m hot?” Dylan asks impatiently, but also kind of sadly, like he’s being - sweet? Wants some sort of strange validation? So fucking weird. 

“Well which is it, Dyl? Do I want to fuck you or do I think you’re hot?” 

Shit, Jonny’s going to _kill_ him. 

And okay, yeah, fuck, Patrick kind of hates the familiar sense of thrill and anticipation that’s starting to fuse through his bloodstream. 

“Well, both, I guess,” the kid says thoughtfully, “it’s just - I was on the dance floor, and you _know_ I can’t dance, but then my fucking jam came on, so of course I had to break it down, and Shawzy said he felt like his dick was retracting into his body and - stop!” 

Patrick can’t help but fucking laugh, loud and obnoxious, his head thrown back against the couch of the booth. Fucking _Christ_. 

Dylan makes a stupid whining noise and Patrick sobers. Slightly. “ _A_ _nyway_ , so then all the guys are saying like, they can’t even _believe_ I have a girlfriend - stupid assholes - so I need to know, from someone’s opinion I trust; would you fuck me?” 

Patrick’s still laughing, sort of, mainly because he can’t believe this is what it has come to. Surely his infinite wisdom and guidance has to have a limit - the limit being his fucking privacy and the matter of who he wants to (and doesn’t want to) fuck. 

And maybe Patrick could pass it off as Dylan just asking ‘cause he thinks Patrick will be objective and a good bro, but then - Patrick knows Dylan _knows_. 

Dylan knows Patrick fucks Jonny. 

Which was never intended and certainly not common knowledge amongst the team. If you didn’t count Duncs and Seabs. And Crow. And Sharpy, if he still counts as being a part of ‘the team’. Which he does, for Patrick at least. And Alex. 

Which is why Dylan knows, naturally. 

Not that they ever _told_ Alex. It was a case of bad timing, bad location, bad - everything. Which was totally Jonny’s fault, just because the guy couldn’t wait to get his dick sucked until they got home and Patrick was all too happy to get down on his knees in the showers at Fifth Third. So okay, it was kind of Patrick’s fault too, and when he reflects on it his nose wrinkles ‘cause the showers at Fifth Third are fucking nasty and he really needs to control himself more when Jonny and his dick are involved, but, whatever. 

Alex had walked in on them. 

Patrick had been fucking positive everyone had cleared out, he and Jonny had been out on the ice for _ages_ , long after everyone had gone to shower and fuck off home. The team would probably praise them for being such diligent hard workers or some shit, but it was mainly an excuse for Jonny to chase him around on the ice whilst Patrick laughed and played keep-away with the puck and maybe like, tried to kiss him up against the boards a little bit. Maybe. Innocent until proven guilty because that’s lame as shit. Anyway. 

So the locker room had been dead empty and Patrick was kind of desperate to choke on Jonny’s dick and of course Alex had to forget his fucking - what even was it? Patrick can’t remember. He’s pretty sure the kid didn’t need to be in the showers, but okay he and Jonny were probably being pretty loud and if he were Alex he’d totally go check it out too. 

Which he’s sure Alex regrets now ‘cause the kid acted like he’d gone fucking blind. 

If it weren’t so horrifying, it would have been pretty funny. He knows what they looked like, Patrick on his knees, Jonny’s fingers pulling harshly in his hair and his dick halfway down his throat until he was gagging. Jonny had been spilling out some filth, about how beautiful Patrick was, how his lips were made to be wrapped around his cock and how good he took it, all while water was cascading down the cut of Jonny’s torso, his abs, leaving Patrick equally wet. 

It was pretty hot, pretty traumatising to walk in on he’s sure. 

Patrick had been (naturally) mortified, but Jonny was kind of more put out than anything else. Which was typical. The fucking exhibitionist probably wouldn’t have cared if Alex stayed to watch. Maybe. Probably. 

Alex definitely hadn’t stayed. 

Jonny had run after him, grabbing a towel as he did (thank god), which was probably the captain-ly thing to do. Which had left Patrick to pick himself and his sore knees up off the tiles and be horribly embarrassed under the hot stream of water. 

Patrick’s not 100% sure what Jonny _said_ to Alex, but it was probably moderately apologetic and mildly threatening. Like, _we’re sorry we scarred you for life and also if you tell anyone I’ll strange you with one of my gold medals._

Patrick’s not sure what Alex said in return, but obviously Jonny did a good enough of a job that it wasn’t like, enormously awkward when Patrick saw him the next day at training. Sure, Alex couldn’t really maintain eye contact and couldn’t put the puck in the net to save his life, but it was comforting to know he didn’t start screaming at him and Jonny that they were abominations or anything like that. Which would have been _wildly_ unexpected and moderately heartbreaking, but, Patrick’s had a healthy level of distrust ever since he realised he preferred dick over tits and what that meant for his career and being in the NHL. 

Better not to say anything, is what he and Jonny always agreed. Even if it wasn’t ideal. 

So Alex was awkward, for a bit, but ultimately it was fine. He’d admitted to Patrick eventually one day after practice that it was completely and totally horrifying to see, not because they were dudes, but because it was like seeing his parents have sex. 

Which Patrick thought was fucking hilarious and laughed until his eyes watered. 

When he’d told Jonny later on the ride home, Jonny had rolled his eyes and simply said, “yeah cause you’re everyone’s mom, remember.” 

So Alex knew. Which meant Dylan knew. Which both he and Jonny were weirdly okay with. Apparently Alex telling Dylan didn’t break the “strangle you with my medals” rule. 

(Okay, so, Jonny would never have fucking even said the word medals but it’s nice for Patrick to add some flare to his stories every once in awhile.) 

Dylan and Alex told each other _everything_ , which was kind of cute and nice and Patrick was happy for them that they’d found family in one another. People always compared them to a young Kane and Toews, which was so wrong on so many levels and that’s even without the whole, fucking each other since they were rookies, thing. Well, they weren't rookies when they started fucking. But they were definitely like, kids, basically. 

Whatever. Not the point. 

So Patrick’s pretty sure he knows why Dylan is asking him this now. Not because he trusts Patrick’s generally stellar opinion, but because he thinks that as probably the only guy he knows who sucks dick, Patrick will have some definitive judgement on Dylan’s looks. Which is so stupid, but Patrick can school him on that later. 

Patrick knows Jonny is still looking, still _glaring_ and he’s such a possessive fuck it never fails to make Patrick annoyed and turned on all at once. Actually, the annoyed part is probably only about 2% at this point. 

Besides, no one can ever try deny Patrick totally fucking asks for it. 

He grins at Dylan, all dimples and teeth, reaching out to curl his fingers in the soft hair at the base of the boys skull. He tugs gently and Dylan smiles, content like a cat. Or, a puppy maybe is more accurate. 

“Aww,” he practically coos, “I think you’re pretty cute, Stromer.” 

Patrick can hear Jonny’s palm hit the table. 

Dylan’s smile turns to a pout. “I didn’t ask if I was _cute_ , I want to know if I’m fuckable.” 

Patrick bites down on his tongue to stop himself from laughing. “I mean ... I don’t know.” 

“Come on!” Dylan whines again. “Please, just tell me, and it’ll make my fucking year.” 

_Don’t look at Jonny, don’t look at Jonny, don’t look at Jonny._

Patrick leans in, just enough that he can feel the press of Dylan’s body against his side, can smell his body wash. He’s warm and soft and smells like pine needles. “I think...” he says slowly, running his tongue against his lower lip almost on impulse, “you’re very fuckable, Dylan.” 

Patrick will give Dylan credit that he is completely comfortable with the whole thing. If anything he just looks really fucking pleased with himself, completely not bothered with the fact that his very old, very sober, very _male_ teammate is blatantly hitting on him. 

So Patrick’s not even old, but half the team makes him feel it these days. 

Not that it probably matters any more, as he’s pretty sure he’s not living to see another day. The fact Jonny hasn’t full on decked anyone yet is actually quite impressive. 

Patrick doesn’t even really care if anyone on the team notices what he’s doing, because even if they did they’d probably just think him and Dylan are being fucking weird. Which they _are_ , but that’s besides the point. Patrick’s pretty sure most of the guys are engrossed in their own conversations anyway, and despite the hockey world of inherently hetero-culture, hockey guys are also some of the most touchy-feely people Patrick’s ever known. Bunch of hypocrites. 

Dylan’s still smiling. “That’s so great, man,” he says happily. “I knew I could count on you.” 

Patrick is practically leering, which is so gross, but he can’t stop himself. “Oh, baby,” he says gently, “do you need me to go tell all the boys what I think? How I’d fuck you right here if you’d let me?” 

And okay that’s _way_ too far, even for Patrick, but Dylan fucking started it and the idiot is drunk enough (and also a really nice, _good_ kid) that he’s not even freaked out by it. Patrick will probably thank him for that later. 

Patrick hasn’t really planned on what happens next, had sort of expected Jonny to be strangling him by this point, but Dylan just keeps smiling happily and Patrick smiles right back.

Which is when Alex comes bounding over to their table. 

“My friends!” He yells loudly, pulling both Patrick and Dylan’s attention. Maybe some others, Patrick is too focused on _JonnyJonnyJonny_ to notice. 

Dylan’s dumb smile beams up at Alex. “Kitty!” 

Alex frowns so instantly and so deeply it’s almost funny. “Uh,” he tries, head whipping back and forth between Patrick and Dylan and Jonny’s side of the table. “Uh.” 

Patrick pulls on Dylan’s hair. “I was just telling Dyl here, how fuckable he is. Don’t you think?” 

“Uh.” 

Alex looks like he’s about to stroke out. 

“Kaner - Pat,” he tries, eyes wide. “You good?” 

Patrick smirks. “Fantastic, Brinksy.” 

Alex’s gaze tracks back to Jonny and Patrick doesn’t even want to look at Jonny, if the sheer and utter terror on Alex’s face is any indication of Jonny’s mood. It’s not a great look on Alex, all sheepish and traumatised. Patrick should probably fix that. 

But he has to take one last shot. Come on. 

“Well,” he half sighs, half says mournfully, “if you ever need someone to _really_ assure you how fuckable you are Dylan, you know where to find me.”

So the grip on Dylan’s thigh is probably too much. So is the lingering brush of his fingers over the guys shoulder. But he looks pleased and satisfied and positively smug, and Patrick needs to put some space between them before Dylan outright tries to kiss him as thanks or something. Patrick might have a death wish but he doesn’t particularly want to lose one of their star centres. 

There are some limits. 

And also, maybe, sort of, Patrick doesn’t outwardly want to cheat on Jonny. Fucked up, innocent game or not. 

“Alright, well, uh,” Alex pipes up, his voice high and strained, “let’s go Dyl.” 

He practically drags Dylan away at that point, detaching him from Patrick’s side from where he’d been suctioned. Patrick thinks Dylan is going to say something, offer one last grin, but Alex slaps a hand over his mouth and pushes him forward into the dark bar and out of sight with surprising ferocity. Which can’t be easy, seeing how much taller and bigger Dylan is. Patrick can relate, he’s been trying to manhandle Jonny around for years. Somewhat unsuccessfully. 

It helps when Jonny is begging to be manhandled. 

Right, Jonny. Patrick had sort of forgotten about him for a second. (Which is a lie). 

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, really, desperately hoping and praying none of the guys see how he needs to lean forward on the table to hide what’s probably so fucking obvious. Which, that in itself is fine, but he really doesn’t want anyone thinking he’s hard because he was feeling up Dylan Strome. That would be largely horrifying and extremely creepy and Patrick would much rather everyone know the truth, if they were to know at all. 

_Yeah, no big deal, my boyfriend just gets really fucking possessive and jealous and it turns him on because he knows he’s the only one who can have me and it turns me on because I know I’m going to like, **get it** , later. _

Whatever. Patrick has talked his dick down many times in public where Jonathan Toews is concerned. Fuckers not that hot. Except he completely is. 

And, oh. Jonny may have helped with that because the guy is straight up not even sitting at the table anymore. 

Patrick had been orbiting around the guy for approximately twelve years, it was rare he lost sight of him. Lost track of his presence. 

“Hey,” he says kind of loudly to Rob and Crow across the table, making him wince. “Taze take off?” 

Crow smirks knowingly and Rob just smiles innocently. Sweet motherfucker. “I think so, didn’t say anything though. Maybe just went to get another drink.” 

Patrick nods in thanks and crosses his arms tightly over his chest. He tries to crane his neck to look around the bar, and yeah it’s dark and crowded but he definitely can’t see Jonny anywhere. If Jonny’s fucked off back to the hotel Patrick’s going to be - shit. Not that it changes anything, probably, although it is a likely indicator that Jonny is - what? So angry he can’t even be in Patrick’s presence?

Nice. 

He tries to get back into the conversation with Drake and Duncs, but it’s a half hearted attempt at best. He’s not even sure what they’re talking about. Travelling? Good food? Somewhere Drake ate in Cali? That really narrows it down. 

But he tries. Which is what matters. And Patrick thinks it’s a pretty impressive feat to be talking about Italian food(?) when all he can think about is how hard Jonny’s going to fuck him tonight. Shit, he might not be able to walk properly tomorrow. Jonny might fuck his mouth until his voice is hoarse, until every word he tries to speak on their flight back to Chicago tomorrow is wrecked and so obvious. Jonny might tie him to the bed frame back at the hotel, make him beg for it until he’s sobbing, pulling against his restraints until they leave marks. Maybe he’ll - 

“ -ner? _Kaner_.” 

What?

Shit. Duncs. 

“Sorry, man,” he tries, running a hand over his tired face. He hopes it’s tired. Not, turned on to the highest degree. Patrick’s had twelve years to school his expressions into something neutral, he’s pretty sure he’s a pro at it by now. Except, Duncs has known _f_ _orever_ and knows all of Patrick’s damn tells. 

“I was just saying,” he says, more sighs, “that you look beat, and you should probably go back to the hotel.” 

Shit. If _Duncs_ is telling you that you’re tired and need to go to bed, you probably look fucking haggard. Old bastard. Old bastard who Patrick is incredibly fond of, who’s been sort of taking care of him forever and - huh. Yeah. So maybe Duncs is _his_ hockey mom. Does that make Seabs the dad? What the _fuck_ does it make Sharpy? God. Patrick and Jonny were the kids of these guys for so long, still are, and now Patrick’s complaining about having to be the parent when - 

“My god, you’re not even listening.” 

He’s really not. “Yeah, shit sorry, what?” 

Duncs rolls his eyes. “Go to bed, Kaner.” 

So Patrick does. Well, he tries. It takes what feels like hours to say his goodbyes, everyone wanting to punch him in the shoulder or fist bump him a minimum of three times. Patrick loves being the game winner in overtime but it makes it almost impossible to get out of celebratory drinks. He has no idea how Jonny managed to so effortlessly slide away and he’s the fucking captain for Christ’s sake. Isn’t it his duty or whatever to _be_ there?

Although, Patrick’s not _r_ _eally_ in any sort of position to complain. It is also infinitely easier when they don’t have to play the awkward game of leaving together, but not really leaving together, not wanting it to look like they’re leaving together - it’s exhausting. 

Patrick almost considers leaving his children without saying goodbye on the dance floor, but he catches sight of Dylan’s long limbs trying to move and Alex screaming with laughter and he can’t help but go over. 

Naturally, when they see him they try pull him in for a dance. Which is strictly _not_ going to happen and Patrick’s thankful he and Alex are the same size. It would be leagues harder to evade two Stromer’s. 

Dylan settles with an arm around Patrick’s shoulders and Alex goes in for his waist on the other side, until he’s awkwardly pressed between them both in the middle of a Californian dance floor. 

“So, we were thinking about it,” Dylan practically yells into his ear over the music, far louder than he needs to be. “We love you and Jonny so much.” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow, even though neither boy can see him. “Okay?” 

“And we know you love each other so much and we love that for you guys.” 

Patrick pauses awkwardly. Not that he _f_ _eels_ awkward, not about them knowing or anything else but - they never openly talk about it. That’s kind of an unspoken rule. Him and Jonny have been doing what they’re doing for so, _so_ long, and doing it so privately, it feels abstract and out of place when it’s out in the open with others. Like it’s ... real? Which isn’t fair. Or accurate. Because it’s the realest thing in Patrick’s life; _Jonny’s_ the realest thing Patrick’s ever had. 

They always talk about how content they are with it being so secret, how it’s _fine_ , except it’s not and it’s sort of stupidly wonderful to sometimes have a friend, or someone, fucking acknowledge it and be happy about it. Supportive. 

Okay yeah no, Patrick’s not doing that. He’s meant to be going back to the hotel to get laid, not get all choked up with Brinksy and Stromer who smell like beer and tequila and are far too warm pressed into his side. 

“What Dyl is trying to say,” Alex says quickly, filling the empty space, “is that we don’t want to see you fighting. And we _e_ _specially_ don’t want to see you fighting over like, Dyl, or whatever because -" 

“Yeah because I know I was being annoying and pushing you and Alex has pointed out you were hitting on me, which is completely fine! But -"

 _Oh god._

“ - Jonny was like _so_ mad,” Alex interjects. “And if you do want to fuck Dyl, which is so weird, but -" 

“But completely fine and understandable because I’m hot as fuck.”

Alex rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s fine, but - Jonny was _right there_ man, and he looked like he was going to stab someone which, even for him, was pretty fucking intense and uh -"

“Basically, we just don’t want you and Jonny to be having problems and I don’t want to aid those problems in any way, or for Jonny to think that - well, not that I don’t think you’re super fucking awesome, Kaner, and I look up to you _so_ much, but, uh, I don’t know if -"

“Oh my god,” Patrick says finally, pushing them both away until they’re almost standing side by side in front of him. He keeps a hand on each of their shoulders. Dylan looks sheepish, like letting Patrick down, or whatever the hell it is he’s doing, is _upsetting_ him and Alex looks genuinely concerned for Patrick’s happiness or something equally ridiculous. Patrick doesn’t know whether to laugh or to do literally anything else. 

“Guys,” he tries, closing his mouth and opening it again twice. “Guys, Jonny and I are really fucking great. I can promise you that.” 

The two boys glance at each other, only quickly, as if they’re watching the other to see how they should be reacting. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. 

“Jonny and I are - god - Jonny and I aren’t having problems. Literally, we’ve never been better. It’s really nice of you both to be so concerned, but don’t be. Seriously.” 

Dylan frowns. “But - the things you said to me -"

“And the way Jonny reacted ...” Alex finishes.

Patrick looks up at the ceiling, wondering when this became his life. What did he ever do, seriously. 

“Dylan, I don’t want to fuck you. Sorry. Don’t worry, I still think you’re plenty hot and great, but that’s completely separate from the fact I also like to suck dick, yeah?” 

Dylan nods, even though he really doesn’t look like he gets it. 

“And, I’m not really going to explain it because it doesn’t really make sense and also, uh, I don’t want to scar you guys for life,” _more than I already have,_ “but - I knew what I was doing, and Jonny knew what I was doing and we’re both, like, into it.” 

Patrick really, _r_ _eally_ , shouldn’t be having the conversation in a place that’s so public, but the boys are so _thick_ and - shit, he’s really going to have to fucking spell it out isn’t he? They both stand there, looking at Patrick like he’s speaking a different language; Dylan’s head is practically cocked to the side in question. 

Patrick rolls his eyes. “I hit on other guys, or other guys hit on me, and it turns Jonny on. The more I push it, the harder Jonny will fuck me. So obviously, I push it pretty fucking hard. Jonny _l_ _ikes_ it, I like it, we’re all good.” 

Alex looks like he’s going to pass out and Dylan just _stares_ , like Patrick has told him he needs to take his place in a shootout for the deciding point. 

“But -" Alex tries, “but - he was so - his _face_.” 

Patrick grins, socking them each in the shoulder before stepping back. “Exactly. So, no one bother us tonight, we’ll be busy.” 

He doesn’t bother saying anything else, doesn’t bother with trying to fix the absolutely traumatised look on Alex’s face or address the fact Dylan might have gone catatonic. It’s completely their own faults (except, he may have pushed it with Dylan a _little_ bit too far) and if they wanted to consign themselves to being number one fucking fans of Kane and Toews well then, shit, they may as well have all the details. 

Maybe Jonny will be put out that Patrick told them some - perhaps more than intimate - details of their relationship, but if Patrick knows him (which he’d like to think he’s a pro at this point), he’ll be surprised he wasn’t the one to say it himself. Despite popular opinion, Jonny was the far more expressive of the two of them - no fucking worries with showing every single damn emotion on his sleeve if he wanted to. Meanwhile Patrick feels like he’s spent twelve years being shy and awkward and quiet where Jonathan Toews is concerned. 

Patrick looked at Jonny and Jonny would light up like a fucking Christmas tree, Jonny would look at Patrick and Patrick would look at the floor, dimples showing and cheeks flushed. 

Patrick tried, he did, tried to be more - open. But he’d been trying for twelve years and was hardly getting better. Jonny was his friend, his teammate, his captain and his everything else; Jonny was the person he wanted to spend the rest of his life with and he couldn’t look at the guy sometimes in public without getting so fucking nervous. 

Sometimes it made Patrick feel guilty, like he wasn’t giving Jonny the same love outwardly that Jonny gave him, which felt stupid. It ran deeper than that, they both knew it did; years of doubt and hiding who they really were making Patrick feel like he wasn’t _allowed_ to look at Jonny like he really wanted to.

Shit. No. Patrick is _not_ doing this to himself in the back of a cab in California, especially when he’s about to get spectacularly fucked. Patrick’s got plenty of down time to be sad about a lot of things, and Jonny fucking him is not one of them. 

He’s practically bouncing walking through the lobby of the hotel and the ride up in the elevator, can’t stop his leg from fucking shaking, caught somewhere between anticipation, heat and feeling already half hard just from the run of his imagination. 

He takes one last deep breath when he slips the key into the lock of their shared room, feeling his fingers twitch and stomach flutter. Technically it’s not his room, or their room, technically it’s Jonny’s and his is the one next door. Technically, as far as everyone is concerned, Patrick’s never allowed to call this _his_ room. But the one next door will always be empty, unused and bare. 

Patrick sees Jonny before he needs to worry about calling out or going to find him. It’s infinitely easier when they’re in a hotel room, not a lot of scope to hide or have Jonny brooding in some unknown room. When they’re at home, in their frankly too big house, Jonny can just fucking pop out out of nowhere and scare Patrick half to death. 

Tonight Jonny’s on the bed, still completely dressed in his game day suit and only his shoes kicked off at the door. Shit, not even his tie is undone and Patrick feels anticipation flood his bloodstream. Just the sight of him makes Patrick’s throat feel tight. 

He’s looking down at his phone, doesn’t even _f_ _linch_ when Patrick enters the room, as if it’s any other night, any other road trip and looks so comfortable up against the headboard with his ankles crossed. 

“Hey,” Patrick says, and yeah, that’s embarrassing. One word and it’s quiet and strained and dry. 

Jonny doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even react, and Patrick’s not even surprised. 

“Did you have a good night?” He asks, aiming for casual. He loosens his tie but keeps it around his neck and shrugs of his jacket, languid and easy like it truly were any other night, like the tension between them wasn’t so thick they were almost choking on it. 

Patrick sits on the edge of the desk by the window and kicks off his shoes. “I had a _great_ night, in case you were wondering,” he smirks slightly, growing confidence with each second, “ended up on the dance floor for a bit when you’d left.” 

Jonny’s fingers twitch against his phone. 

“Yeah, I was headed out but then Alex and Dyl saw me and it was like, couldn’t say no, right?” 

Patrick’s unhooks his belt, pops the button on his suit trousers. “God, you wouldn’t think it, but Stomer can actually really move on the dance floor.” 

Which is a total fucking lie and Shawzy was probably spot on when he said watching Dylan dance made his dick retract into his body, but it lands the desired punch all the same. 

Jonny closes his eyes and breathes and it’s almost zen-like, almost relaxing, if Patrick didn’t know it meant Jonny was two seconds away from completely losing his shit. 

He was almost crushing his phone in his hand. 

“I don’t know if you heard, but he was asking me if I’d fuck him,” Patrick laughs, completely shameless and innocent. “Crazy, right?”

So close. 

“But,” Patrick drawls. So close. “Maybe it’s not so crazy. The guy is hot. And after he brought it up, it made me think... Dylan, you know? Fucking Dylan. I think he’d really like taking it, you know? Or I guess, I could let him fuck me.” 

Jonny’s eyes open and every nerve in Patrick’s body lights up like electric wire. 

Patrick can see it there, in Jonny’s eyes, the first time he’s looked at Patrick since the bar, how _wrecked_ he is. Angry and _f_ _urious_ and so completely and utterly turned on. His pupils are almost black and Patrick holds his breath. 

“Patrick.” 

The breath leaves him in a rush, his lungs emptying and toes curling against the carpet. 

“Patrick,” Jonny says again, his tone so measured and clear. “Get on your knees.” 

Patrick doesn’t think he’ll ever not be weak for Jonny. He can’t help it, couldn’t even stop it if he tried; he’s completely powerless when he sinks down to the rough carpet with a gentle thud. The sound of his belt jolting reverberates through the room, still open and loose around his hips. 

Jonny swings his legs over the side of the bed, controlled and smooth. It’s beautiful, really. He’s languorous, utterly effortless when he moves to stand in front of Patrick; he’s so tall he towers and Patrick has to crane his neck. 

Jonny’s thighs are thick and strong and his trousers are pulled so tight, like the stitches are going to rip at the seams and Patrick’s mouth waters. He can see the evidence of Jonny’s arousal, right there in front of him, straining and torturously confined. Patrick could lean forward, just a bit, and get his mouth on Jonny. He wants to moan against the fabric, get him damp and needy until he’s begging for Patrick to suck his dick. 

Patrick has to bite his tongue to stop himself. 

He looks up at Jonny’s face through long lashes, blinking once, twice, and running his tongue along the top row of his teeth. 

Jonny visibly shivers. 

“Patrick,” he says, for what feels like the hundredth time. “You drive me crazy. You know that, right?”

Patrick simply nods, not breaking eye contact and Jonny’s fingers reach out to run down the line of his jaw. Patrick flinches at the feel of Jonny’s skin on his, the touch so barley there but flaying him all the same. 

Jonny’s hand is so _big_ , it engulfs Patrick’s cheek. It’s sweet, well, it could be, under different circumstances. Jonny’s thumb brushes against his high line of his cheekbone and Patrick leans into the touch, resisting the urge for his eyes to flutter closed. Or to kiss Jonny’s palm. 

“You drive me so crazy,” Jonny murmurs, almost completely to himself. “What am I going to do with you?” 

Patrick’s not meant to answer, so he doesn’t, he smiles instead. He turns his head, just enough to get Jonny’s fingers on his mouth and opens his lips. He darts out his tongue and sucks on Jonny’s index finger, deep and wet. He doesn’t take his eyes off Jonny’s the whole time. 

Jonny snaps. 

He grabs Patrick by his tie, pulling his hand free of Patrick’s mouth and pulls harshly upward so that Patrick has no choice but to practically scramble to his feet. Sometimes Patrick wishes he were the same height as Jonny, that he were as big, so he could meet him eye to eye as a challenge. But, Patrick will never be able to deny that he loves this more. He loves feeling small, feeling Jonny tower above him, huge and imposing and gentle all at once. It makes him feel safe, protected, like he could tuck himself into the crook of Jonny’s neck and disappear. 

Sometimes Jonny would stand over his stall in the locker room when he was already in his skates and Patrick would lose every train of thought he’d ever had. It was stupid, really. It’s not like Jonny in skates and hockey gear was particularly hot (although it kind of was, and that was a real problem when it’s how Patrick saw him ninety percent of the time), but it was how big it would make him, when Patrick wasn’t even dressed in his gear yet. It was how imposing he became, the C on his chest and confidence etched into every line of his face. Jonny put on the uniform and became determined; to win, to lead, to do whatever it took, and Patrick was in awe of him every time. Even in the moments where Jonny was irritating him to death (which were shockingly frequent), he knew he’d follow him anywhere; he’d be everything Jonny needed. 

Jonny’s hands take hold of his face, tipping his head back until he’s right where he needs to be, pliant and weak and all Jonny’s for the taking. His touch is soft, almost gentle, and he frames Patrick so perfectly. 

It’s a relief when Jonny takes his mouth with his own. 

Patrick is weak to do much more than let his lips part breathlessly, desperate to feel every touch and every brush of Jonny. His lips. His mouth. His tongue. Jonny loves kissing and Patrick loves to be kissed.

It’s sweet, yet it’s not and Jonny’s hold on his face becomes rough and his mouth insistent. It’s almost like Jonny’s trying to kiss the... god, he doesn’t even know what it is. Sass? Cockiness? Disobedience? Whatever Jonny’s decided he is, he wants to kiss it out of him, almost could with the way he practically sucks on his tongue. 

When a soft moan crawls it’s way up Patrick’s throat, completely out of his control, Jonny pulls back. Patrick feels momentarily dazed and can’t find the power to open his eyes, but he leans forward as if to try chase Jonny’s lips with his own and he hears Jonny laugh. _Laugh_. 

Patrick blinks his eyes open slowly and sees Jonny smirking down at him, controlled and beautiful. 

One hand stays cupping Patrick’s cheek and the other glides down last his jaw to curl gently round the curve of his neck. Jonny’s thumb rests perfectly on the column of his throat, the heel of his palm pressing against the top of his collarbone. 

Jonny squeezes, only barely, but enough to make Patrick’s eyes widen and his breath quicken. The position of Jonny’s hand is not enough to choke him properly (in the way Patrick sometimes begs for it), but it’s enough to press down on his windpipe and make it hard to breathe, if only for a second. 

Jonny’s eyes are wide and dark and Patrick wants him to kiss him again, deeply and rough and all consuming. But he wants Jonny’s mouth on the rest of him more, wants Jonny to take him apart and put him back together again with nothing but his tongue. 

Jonny leans in, as if to kiss him, but brushes his lips against Patrick’s jaw instead. “I’m going to fuck you,” he says simply, evenly. “I’m going to have you face down. I want you to _feel_ it."

Patrick’s so hard it _hurts_. 

“Understand?” Jonny says sharply, without feeling and his hand on Patrick’s neck squeezes tight. 

Patrick nods quickly, his breath short and shallow. He wonders what he must look like to Jonny, desperate and aching for it, eager and trusting, all of it dancing there across his features in the dull light of the hotel room. 

The first time Jonny choked him, it was completely by accident and almost entirely non-sexual. It was before any of this had started, before they really became _them_ and Patrick was trying to figure out if what he felt when he looked at Jonny was normal. Trying to understand why his heart would beat thunderously in his chest, why he stared a second too long, why it made his mouth dry. They were kids, barely knew anything - about life or anything else, really - and they spent more time arguing than they did playing hockey. 

Patrick loved riling Jonny up and Jonny loved to push back, caught in a paradox where fighting made them _better_ , made them skate and play harder with something to prove; to each other, to everyone else. 

Mostly they left it on the ice (and on the bench and maybe the locker room too), happy to be perfectly civil and friendly anywhere else. Except Jonny made him so damn nervous all the time, back in the beginning, and he drove him practically insane in their hotel room. 

It’s nice now, to willingly share a hotel room on the road, but in those early days Patrick used to dream of smothering Jonny to death with a pillow. He left his shit _everywhere_ and he breathed too loudly and he took too long in the shower and he’d do yoga in his boxer briefs and it made Patrick painfully turned on every time. Jonny was annoying and confusing and it hurt to look at him. 

So sometimes it was only natural to fight with him in the room, to push him up against the wall and beg to be pushed back. It was mostly fun, mostly harmless, because Jonny knew if he used all his strength he could straight up kill Patrick, but both were left with one too many bruises for it to be simply messing around. 

Besides, Patrick liked Jonny being rough. He liked when Jonny pushed just that bit too far, when he’d grab Patrick by the front of his shirt and press him down into the mattress to take control. Patrick barely had control when they fought, but sometimes Jonny would let him, would let himself be put into a headlock or pinned to the floor. Well, until he got bored of that and basically fucked Patrick’s life up with barely any effort at all. 

Jonny had had Patrick pinned beneath him at the foot of the bed, the first time it happened, both of them worked up and ready to go after they’d started arguing about - Jesus, Patrick can’t even remember. He’s not sure they were even arguing. Usually there was no malice to the physical fighting, it was wrestling more than anything else, often ending in laughter even if it started with yelling. 

But Patrick does remember _pushing_ Jonny, further and further to see how far it could go before he’d snap. It was probably some choice words about Jonny as a leader, about his inability to captain their team and that they’d be better off if Patrick took the C, because how could he captain them to victory when he couldn’t even fight for shit. Bold words from a man who was trapped under Jonny’s grip and didn’t actually believe a word of what he’d said. Jonny didn’t believe it either, knew it was a cheap shot and an utter lie (knew Patrick would rather die before he questioned Jonny as his captain), but he’d cracked all the same. 

One hand had been on Patrick’s rib cage, just below his heart and warm over his shirt, and the other found itself curled around the thick lines of Patrick’s throat. Jonny’s strength had snapped, striking out so quickly and roughly that Patrick didn’t even have time to blink, or to breathe. Making the assumption he wanted to breathe, or actually physically could. Jonny’s grip was tight and insistent and Patrick had only felt one thing, one overwhelming emotion above everything else that was raging inside of him like a storm; fear.

Fear because it wasn’t fear _of_ Jonny, it was the fear of how it made him feel.

Patrick had felt warm all over, too hot, as if he was slowly being set on fire from the inside out. His toes had curled and his hands fisted in the front of Jonny’s shirt above him and he was powerless to do anything other than let his hips jerk upwards in response and right up into Jonny.

Patrick was hard, he couldn’t have hidden it if he tried, but so was Jonny; strong and demanding and unmistakable pressed into him.

It didn’t last long, Jonny’s hand on his neck, but Patrick saw it on his face. He saw what it did to Jonny, watching Patrick beneath him, helpless and under his control. Jonny would have seen the affect it had on Patrick, too, practically moaning and tense beneath him, coiled with anticipation and the want of _more_. But Jonny had leant back, removing his hand from Patrick’s throat almost as quickly as he’d put it there, sitting back on the mattress and putting desperately needed space between them. They’d stared, unable to do much else, both of their eyes dark and blown and the ache to _touch_ tangible and thick in the air.

It was perhaps the first time Patrick admitted to himself he wanted Jonny, wanted him in any way he was allowed. And it was confronting and terrifying and sort of fucking wonderful and he didn’t know how to put any of it into words. Didn’t dare want to act on it.

He’d laughed instead, trying to diffuse some of the tension and distract from the way he was almost desperate to put a hand on his dick, if just to relieve the pressure more than anything. Mostly he’d wanted to put his hand on Jonny’s dick, whilst Jonny had a hand on his throat, but he was hardly allowed to ask for that, not then.

“Always knew you wanted to kill me,” he’d joked, running his fingers along his neck, where Jonny’s had just been.

Jonny hadn’t said much at all, had simply closed himself off, like he was such a big fan of doing back then, and punched Patrick one last time in the chest, weakly and oddly affectionate.

They didn’t talk about it, not even when they did start hooking up and Patrick was allowed to touch and want openly. Actually, if Patrick remembers correctly, they’d already been sleeping together for well over a year before his want for something _more_ bubbled and spilt over the edge.

It was nothing, really, just small at first; guiding Jonny’s hand whilst he was thrusting into him from above, holding it almost affectionately before placing it on his throat. 

“You can,” he’d breathed, back arching off the bed and legs wrapped around Jonny’s hips. 

Jonny had stilled, pushing deep, looking down at Patrick and all Patrick could do was look at the bead of sweat gliding down Jonny’s temple. God, he’d wanted to taste it. 

Jonny hesitated, something he rarely did, and searched Patrick’s face like he was looking for something. Patrick had hoped then he had found what he needed (trust, honesty, affection, all of it), and simply smiled. Warm and open. 

Jonny’s fingers had tightened, with barely any pressure at all, but then they were both coming, barely a minute apart and it had all been sort of fucking overwhelming.

Then, it had rated in Patrick’s top five orgasms of all time. Embarrassingly (and something he’d never admit _to_ Jonny), they’d all been _with_ Jonny. Shit, maybe it’s still in the top five all these years later. 

After, when Patrick was wrapped up in Jonny’s arms, sweat cooling, sheets ruined and feeling generally disgusting and happy and fucked out, Jonny had admitted that the thought of seeing Patrick hurt, in any way, was the most terrifying thing he’d had to accept. It didn’t matter if it was on the ice, physically or mentally or even at the thought of his own hand. 

They’d talked about it, a lot. Talked and talked more than Patrick thought was actually capable after a truly spectacular orgasm, but it was what Jonny needed. Maybe Patrick needed it too. 

“You’re not going to hurt me,” Patrick had promised, whispering against Jonny’s palm, kissing the skin gently. 

“But - Pat, I cant even watch you get checked out on the ice, how am I meant to -"

“Yeah, well, you better get used to that real quick buddy, ‘cause that’s going to happen for the rest of my career.” 

Jonny had kissed his shoulder, as if he were agreeing, which is pretty fucking funny, considering all these years later someone will still kind of _look_ at Patrick wrong during a game and Jonny just wants to fucking fight them. 

Whatever. Patrick kind of likes it. Kind of. Maybe only a little bit. 

“I know you want to,” Patrick continued, pressing his lips up Jonny’s wrist. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to.” 

Jonny had sighed, long and soft, like all his secrets were being exposed. Too bad. “Yeah,” he said, pulling Patrick in closer, if that were even possible. “I want to.”

It had taken them time, to learn what was okay and what wasn’t, how far they could push before it was too much. Patrick’s limit was pretty fucking far, but it took Jonny awhile to accept that Patrick _wanted_ it, liked it, wanted everything Jonny was willing to give. 

It wasn’t always rough, sometimes it was down right disgustingly nice and romantic and made Patrick cry (which he would fucking die if anyone ever found that out), and they’d be breathing how much they loved each other, skin on skin and lips never more than an inch apart. Sometimes it was tender and gentle and Patrick couldn’t breathe because he didn’t think he could ever be capable of loving anyone or anything like he did Jonny. Sometimes Patrick took Jonny, which was overwhelming for a whole different reason; those moments where Jonny was desperate and aching and needing to feel Patrick in a way that was intense and different and all consuming. 

Now really wasn’t one of those times. 

Both of Jonny’s hands drag down Patrick’s front, bunching gently in his shirt before they pull, hard. The buttons fly and scatter across the room, the material ripping like it’s nothing and Jonny looks smug from it. 

Asshole. 

“Take everything off. Go lie on the bed.” 

Jonny takes a step back and Patrick scrambles to comply; he tries to get his trousers off so quickly he almost trips on them, which is only sort of horrifying. But he hardly cares, not now, not when he’s so desperate for it, desperate for Jonny. 

When he goes to pull the tie from around his neck, Jonny snaps. 

“No. Leave that.” 

Patrick nods dumbly, powerless to do much else, and moves to the bed quickly when his suit is in pieces on the floor and forgotten. He rests back against the headboard, much like Jonny had been doing minutes prior, but he’s sure he’s not the image of refined calm, cool and fucking collected Jonny was going for. 

He wants, _needs_ , to touch himself, but he knows he’d be bitched out for it. Maybe he could, maybe - 

“No.” 

Patrick clenches his hands into fists. 

Jonny takes his time getting undressed, tortuously slow, like he’s got all the time in the world to hang up his fucking jacket and spend an eternity on each button of his shirt. He knows what he’s doing, the fucker, and Patrick wants to bite him, hard. He fucking will, right when Jonny least expects it. 

Patrick feels dizzy by the time Jonny pushes his stupid Armani boxer briefs down his thick thighs, feels his mouth water at the sight of him. God, it’s been years, but Patrick wants him, wants all of it, the same way he has since day one; since he was nineteen and clueless and burned to know what it felt like to have Jonny inside of him. 

Jonny’s naked and beautiful and imposing and stands at the end of the bed, sizing Patrick up and down like he’s working out the play. Patrick thinks it should be easy, the way his legs are spread, his hands fisted at his sides, open and ready and wanting. 

Jonny moves a second letter, putting both knees on the end of the bed and practically crawls forward on his hands. Patrick swallows, his mouth turning painfully dry, and visibly shivers when Jonny’s hands reach out to grab his ankles. His grip is tight and commanding and he spreads Patrick’s legs wider, creating the space for him to crawl higher, his hands gliding up the pale skin of Patrick’s shins, his knees, his thighs. He stops, almost resting all his weight onto Patrick’s legs, but quickly ducks to bring his mouth down onto the skin of Patrick’s inner thigh. 

Patrick jerks in response, bites down on his tongue to stop the gasp that’s practically screaming to come out and reminds himself just to _breathe_ when Jonny sinks his teeth into sensitive skin. He doesn’t stop, relentless and never the same spot twice, sucking and biting marks up the insides of Patrick’s thighs, almost back and forth between the two like he can’t decide which side he likes best. 

It hurts, but not in a way that’s painful, more so from the way Jonny’s mouth is so _close_ to his dick yet so fucking far. Patrick might have been getting chirped his whole life for his 'cock-sucking lips' (which, is pretty fucking accurate 'cause he's pretty damn good at doing just that), but he knows how much Jonny loves to suck dick. 

He might make Patrick choke on it more often than not, but he gives just as good as he gets, taking Patrick down until tears spark at the corner of his eyes and his voice is rough raw when it’s over. He gets off on it, making Patrick feel good, making him writhe and jump and moan and completely boneless by the end of it. He wants to hear Patrick beg for more, beg him to go deeper, to fuck into his mouth and pull at his hair. All of which, Patrick is more than happy to oblige on. 

But he has a feeling that won’t happen tonight.

Jonny’s teeth trail a line up Patrick’s side, right up the line of his hip bone until he’s sucking marks into every bit of skin he can. Fuck, Patrick’s going to look like he got attacked in the morning, but he doesn’t really fucking care. 

When he’s so far gone he doesn’t care about the marks, doesn’t care that the guys will see it in the locker room and that he’ll be subjected to nonstop chirping. He doesn’t care if they know, fuck, if he had to tell them all right now just to keep Jonny’s mouth on him, he would. He’d stand at centre ice at the UC and tell fucking anybody that would listen - that he’s Jonny’s. He’s Jonny’s and he doesn’t care. 

(Honestly, he’d tell everyone that anyway, if that was something he was ever allowed to do.)

One of Jonny’s hands is pressed down onto the side of his knee, keeping his legs spread, but the other finds it’s way wrapped around the end of his tie. He murmurs against Patrick’s skin, but doesn’t say anything, not yet, just pulls lightly and bites one more time, hard. 

Patrick can’t help but reach out a hand to grip at Jonny’s shoulder. 

Jonny sits up, just enough to look up at Patrick properly, his tone amused but dark. 

The hand on the tie pulls again, enough so that Patrick leans forward off the head board and held up by Jonny’s grip. 

Jonny’s smirking when he takes the tie off from around Patrick’s neck, untying the knot with deft fingers and pulling it tight in a straight line. 

“Hands out,” he says, voice flat and deep and Patrick is quick to follow. 

Patrick’s never asked, but he’s pretty sure Jonny used to be a Boy Scout or something. Well, he’s pretty sure he _did_ ask once, but Jonny said he hadn’t, which felt like a lie, because he always tied Patrick up so tightly and securely that once they couldn’t even undo the knots and they had to fucking cut him free. Jonny said it was from fishing, or boating, or whatever, something stupid and Canadian. 

_Fishing and/or boating is not inherently Canadian, Kaner,_ the whiny yet monotone Jonny voice bemoans in his ear. 

When Patrick’s wrists are bound Jonny leans down to kiss his hands gently, soft and sweet and a reminder that he’s not going anywhere, that Patrick’s safe and secure and all Jonny’s for the taking. 

He tugs gently on the bind, pushing it upward and above Patrick’s head. “Keep your arms here,” he almost whispers, an instruction Patrick’s not to break. 

Patrick goes to nod but Jonny grabs him by the hips, dragging him roughly and suddenly down the bed until he’s flat on his back and his head is on the pillows. His bound wrists above his head rest almost on the headboard. Patrick wishes it was a bedhead with something for him to hold on to; it’s flat and made of fabric and he has to grip at the top of the pillows instead. 

Patrick can see his chest rising and falling heavily, can _hear_ the way his breath is ragged and deep and Jonny has barely even _touched_ him yet. He wants to bitch at Jonny to get a move on, but that would most likely earn him a slap across the face and if that happens he’ll barely last two seconds. 

As it stands, Jonny brings a sharp hand down on his thigh all the same. 

Patrick’s hips jump and he stops himself from swearing. 

“I love you like this,” Jonny murmurs, as if he’s almost talking to himself. “You’d really let me do anything, wouldn’t you?” 

_Yes_ , is what Patrick wants to breathe, but he looks up at Jonny instead, lashes fanning against his cheeks and his dimple starting to show. 

Jonny groans. “God, what am I going to do with you?”

Patrick smiles properly this time, all teeth, cocky and confident, like he’s just scored the goal that gets them back in the game. “Show them all I’m yours, baby.”

Jonny dives down and takes his mouth with his own, wiping the smile right off his face. It’s rough and insistent and Jonny can’t stop his teeth from sinking into Patrick’s bottom lip. Unlike before, when Jonny had his face in his hands, Patrick kisses back with as much force as he can manage from his limited vantage point. It takes everything he has not to touch, doesn’t even know how he could really, so he keeps his arms locked and unmoving above his head. 

Jonny never said anything about his legs though. 

He arch’s his back and wraps both legs around Jonny’s middle, using his strength to pull Jonny down on top of him until they’re flush and moaning from it. The angle is perfect, to which Patrick will take full credit, grinding them together and making Patrick’s dick twitch. It’s a lot but not enough, to simply grind up into Jonny as he tries to almost suck on Jonny’s tongue. 

Jonny pulls back, even though Patrick knows it kills him to do so, but neither of them are here to get off on grinding like teenagers, Patrick needs Jonny inside him and Jonny knows it. Jonny needs it, too, but no matter how rough they get, how much he’s in control, he will never take without being granted it first. 

“Come on,” Patrick breathes, Jonny still close enough that the words hit his skin, “fuck me.” 

Jonny lets out a breath, rushed and sharp against Patrick’s jaw and makes quick work of reaching over to the bedside drawer where (like a true Boy Scout) he would have put the lube when he got back from the bar. Although, Patrick’s making that kind of difficult, what with the way he won’t release Jonny’s hips from the tight tangle of his legs and all. 

Jonny laughs, just a bit, annoyed and fond all at once. “Let go, you fucker.” It’s not an order, not like most of what he’s said tonight. It’s soft Jonny, gentle Jonny, not the one who wants to beat his ass for feeling up Dylan Strome. 

Right, Patrick had almost forgotten about that. And it’s almost enough to be a boner killer (thinking about Dylan, that is), except he’s pretty sure that would be physically impossible now and besides, Jonny manages to reach the lube anyway and smacks Patrick lightly on the ass for the trouble.

Patrick grins. “I bet Dylan would be all Boy Scout-y too. Keeping lube all over the place, always prepared for -"

Jonny puts his hand right across Patrick’s mouth. 

“I know you’re just intentionally being a shit now,” he says, any fondness gone, “but I’m going to need you to shut the fuck up.” 

Patrick squeezes his legs one last time before he lets them drop back down to the mattress, hoping it conveys to Jonny that he’s sorry, that he’s willing to - Patrick’s never really settled on the word. Comply? Submit? Obey? It all sounds rather ... serious, for his liking. 

Ultimately, he’s Jonny’s, and whatever that means, he’ll give. 

“If I remove my hand are you going to say more shit to get me mad?” 

Patrick wants to shake his head, he honestly does, but he can’t help it when he raises his eyebrows and smirks behind Jonny’s palm. _M_ _aybe_ , is what his eyes say, what he hopes they’re saying, and Jonny’s gaze goes dark. 

He removes his hand all the same, and Patrick is totally and completely ready to grin up at him and say something to _r_ _eally_ piss him off, but Jonny has other plans. With one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around the bind on his wrists, Jonny pushes him to his side until he’s flipped and face down in the pillows, trapped between Jonny’s grip and the mattress. 

The movement is rough and sudden and Patrick has to turn his head to the side just to breathe. 

“Oh _shit_ ,” he whines, trying to grind his hips into the mattress, trying to get some friction. But Jonny’s sitting on the backs of his thighs, knees either side of his hips and holding him firmly in place. 

Patrick wants to tell him that he’s too fucking heavy, to get _off_ , but then Jonny’s bringing a sharp hand down on his ass and Patrick practically jumps halfway up the bed. 

_Oh god._

“Tell me how much you want to fuck Stromer,” Jonny says, he can hear the smirk in it. 

Patrick doesn’t think he can say _anything_ , and Jonny smacks him again. 

“Don’t get quiet on me now, Kaner.” 

“J-Jonny - I -"

_Oh god. Oh god._

Patrick can’t even _think_ when Jonny hits him, relentless and teasing and strong. It hurts, in a way that’s so _good_ and tantalising and Patrick just has to hold on and ride through it. “I don’t -" he tries again, moaning loudly when the sound of Jonny’s hand on his skin echoes around the room. God. “I don’t - shit - I don’t want to fuck Dylan.” 

Jonny's voice is amused and dark. “You sure about that?” 

Patrick nods against the pillow, bracing himself to be hit again. He feels pulled tight, stretched, like the skin of a drum. It’s intense, when he feels like this, like he’s floating; disconnected and untethered. _C_ _ome on_ , he thinks, just one more time. Just one more. 

Jonny hits him, harder and rougher and Patrick cries out. 

Patrick’s come just from this before, just from Jonny’s bare hands striking down on his skin. He probably could now, if he grinds down into the sheets enough, but he’s so desperate to hold on, just a bit longer. 

Jonny’s kissing down the length of his spine, whispering soft words of nothing to calm Patrick down. 

“So beautiful,” he kisses against Patrick’s lower back. “Love you, Pat.” 

Patrick makes a noise he hopes means, _you too_ , but he’s not sure. He does breathe out a sigh though when Jonny’s lips press gently to the curve of his ass, soothing and soft against skin that’s been smacked what Patrick can only imagine is a deep, tantalising red. 

The cap of the bottle of lube being opened makes his breath hitch, just a little, as if he’s conditioned himself over the years to associate that sound with oncoming pleasure. He’ll never admit that to Jonny, though. He doesn’t need him to start popping caps on ice gel or whatever the fuck in the locker room, just to get a reaction. Because that’s 100% something Jonathan Toews would do. 

Patrick tenses, he cant help it, when Jonny’s finger slides into him without preamble. They haven’t fucked in a few days (a serious grievance on their part and all because they were too _busy_ , which was a god damn terrible excuse), and that never fails to make Patrick a little too tight and a lot desperate. 

Jonny loves taking his time with prep, which is nice and all, but by the end of it Patrick is always left moaning and whining and too needy, especially when Jonny presses his fingers just right and teases his prostate just for a fucking laugh. Jonny doesn’t really stretch him out and open him up to please (which is not entirely true because technically, every single thing he does in his life is to please Patrick), because he learnt pretty early on that if he goes too hard with his fingers before his dick Patrick will just come and that’s no fun. Sometimes it’s fun. Sometimes Jonny will make Patrick come on his fingers and fuck him anyway, when he’s tight and sensitive and floating.

Jonny’s four fingers in when Patrick is seriously going to pass out, and Jonny can tell, crooking them just slightly one last time to hear Patrick whine before he pulls out. 

Jonny pushes gently on the back of Patrick’s thigh so his leg is slightly bent, positioning him just the way he wants him. Patrick will give it to him any way, he doesn’t care, because if Jonny’s not inside him in the next sixty seconds he’s actually going to lose his god damn mind. Besides, he likes it this way, face down and fighting for air; he can stare lovingly into Jonny’s eyes another time. 

When the head of Jonny’s dick presses against him he lets out a breath. “Come on, Jonny, that’s it. Take it.” He’s almost panting. 

Jonny smacks him, hard, and drives in all at once. 

“Oh _fuck_." 

Patrick is almost face first into the pillow, moaning through it and breathless when Jonny buries himself to the hilt, no indication that he ever plans on moving. Patrick can take that, for a bit, can appreciate the moment to let himself adjust and work through it. But it doesn’t take long until he starts grinding back on Jonny’s dick, moving his hips against the mattress to feel _more_. 

Jonny groans and takes it for the invitation it is, centring himself by putting one hand on Patrick’s hip and the other on his shoulder and begins to thrust. 

It’s relentless and it’s unrestrained and Patrick knows he’s moaning far too fucking loud for a hotel room where the walls are probably too thin but holy _fuck_. 

His fingers clench and unclench at the top of the pillow, trying to find some sort of purchase to help him hold on. It doesn’t really matter, anyway, Jonny’s grip on him is so tight he just has to take it, all of it. He’s too overwhelmed to do much more than moan out words of _Jonny_ , mixed and muddled with every form of swear word he knows.

Patrick’s not going to last, not with the way Jonny’s got his angle so _perfect_ and Patrick feels like he’s never going to be able to fucking walk again. Or talk again. Or maybe even _t_ _hink_ again. He’s fucking him so hard and so fast the frame of the bed hits against the wall and the last logical brain cell Patrick has soldiering on up there really hopes whoever’s next to Jonny is still out. He thinks it might be Seabs. Whatever. Fuck Seabs, he’s heard them do far worse. Actually, he’s _s_ _een_ them do far worse. 

Patrick’s wrecked, completely and utterly, but he knows Jonny is too. 

“Oh fuck - shit - oh my _god_ , Pat, yeah - come on.” He’s not much more coherent than that. 

Patrick always knows when Jonny is close. He supposes that’s what happens when you sleep with someone constantly and consistently for a decade. Any words he is saying become nothing more than grunts, deep and ragged and without sense. His pace falters, as if he can’t even connect his muscles to what his brain wants them to do, instead riding it out - riding _Pat_ out - without direction but with the same goal in mind. Jonny’s nearing the finish line and Patrick wants to help get him there, he grinds his ass back and moves his hips, almost fucking himself on Jonny even from where he is. 

“Don’t -" Jonny groans, voice wrecked, “don’t come - wait.” 

Which is a pretty tall fucking order, but Patrick will try. He’ll always try for Jonny. 

Jonny grabs both his hips and Patrick holds on to the pillows, _feeling_ it when Jonny comes. His hips take pause, his grunts obscene and he fucks in once, twice, more before he’s coming back down to earth. 

Patrick’s almost _sobbing_. 

After a moment, maybe forever, Jonny pulls out slowly and Patrick’s about to beg for something, _anything_ , but then Jonny’s pushing three fingers into him without warning. 

The sound Patrick makes is one he doesn’t think he’s ever made before. Low, guttural, _animalistic_. 

“Pat,” Jonny moans behind him, like he’s mesmerised, “god - wanted to feel it. Want to see.” 

_That’s nice, now hurry up and get me off,_ is what Patrick says ... in his head. Outwardly, he thinks he’s crying. 

“Sorry, baby, sorry,” Jonny says quickly, as if he’d lost sight of himself, if only for a second. 

Jonny removes his fingers and turns Patrick over just as fast, lifting himself up slightly to get Patrick where he wants him. Patrick knows what he must look like, flushed red from his neck all the way down his chest, tears at the corner of his eyes and bottom lip pulled between his teeth; he’s still got his bound wrists above his head. 

Jonny settles back down on either side of Patrick’s knees, hands resting - gripping - at his thighs. He takes a moment, just to look Patrick up and down, like he’s something he’s never seen before. 

“Jon,” Patrick whispers and Jonny breaks. 

It takes less than a second for Jonny to bend down and take Patrick’s dick between his lips. Patrick cries out, squeezing his eyes shut and can’t help the powerless response his body has to thrust up into Jonny’s mouth. Jonny chokes and the sound makes Patrick’s spine tingle; it’s one of his favourite sounds. 

Jonny throws his forearm over Patrick’s hips all the same, pinning him down and letting his dick hit the back of his throat. 

Patrick’s done when Jonny presses the same three fingers inside of him, crooking upward and pressing directly on his prostate. 

Every nerve in Patrick’s body is on _fire_ , lit up and blazing. He’s moaning and he’s gasping and he’s whining and he’s all but sobbing and he’s coming. He’s coming and coming and he’s probably shouting but all he hears is white noise. Everything short circuits, every part of him _sings_ and he feels like he’s being pushed under water, drowning and choking for air. 

He’s rolling, like waves, over and over until he’s crashing right into the shore. 

Jonny’s there to catch him. Always. 

“Shh baby, it’s okay. You’re okay.” 

Patrick doesn’t think he _is_ , but in a good way. A really fucking good way. A spectacularly, fucking fantastic good way. He can’t feel his legs. 

And. Huh. Okay, yeah, Patrick definitely didn’t pass out (he’s like, fairly sure), but he most definitely lost at least a short window of time, because Jonny’s lips are now up by his neck, kissing him over and over whilst he undoes the tie blindly. 

Patrick’s arms aren’t above him anymore, they’re now resting on his front, and the second Jonny tosses the tie off to the side and he’s free he throws his arms around Jonny’s neck and shoulders and pulls him down on top of him. 

Jonny grunts, just for a second, but then he’s curling into Patrick’s body and pulling him closer. They breathe, just like that, into each other and all consuming, Jonny’s face in the crook of Patrick’s neck and Patrick’s fingers curled in his hair. 

Patrick’s so completely and utterly fucked out and he doesn’t think he can ever move again, couldn’t even fathom it, and it takes what feels like an eternity for his breathing to calm down. Fuck, he could do a damn triple shift and not feel this destroyed. 

That’d be _easy_. 

It takes a moment for Patrick to even realise Jonny’s talking. 

He’s not really saying much, just murmuring Patrick’s name, like he’s in awe, like he can’t believe Patrick is real. 

Patrick hums in content, the first sound he’s made since Jonny fucked him right over the edge and Jonny takes it as an invitation. He lifts his head, just enough to press his lips to the corner of Patrick’s mouth and Patrick finds the energy to open his eyes. 

“Hey,” he says, voice raw. 

“Hi,” Jonny replies, a small smile playing on his features. He doesn’t really sound much better. “You okay?” 

Patrick nods. He really, really wants to kiss Jonny, but he doesn’t know if he can even lift his head enough to meet his lips. Instead he kind of pouts and Jonny laughs, gently and warm, knowing exactly what Patrick needs. 

Jonny kisses him, slow and excruciatingly gentle and Patrick hopes Jonny knows how much he loves him. “I love you,” he says against Jonny’s mouth, because it feels crucial in that moment that Jonny _knows_. 

“I love you too,” Jonny says without hesitation. “I’m going to go get some stuff, okay? I’ll be back in less than a minute.” 

Patrick nods and Jonny kisses him again quickly, before he pulls back and gets off the bed. 

Patrick’s not stupid, he _knows_ Jonny’s not going anywhere, he never does, but Jonny knows he needs this. He needs the reassurance, the promise that Jonny is tangible and _there_ and will never leave. One of the first times they went hard, when Jonny tied him up and hit him for the first time, he’d gotten up quickly after it was over and Patrick panicked. He couldn’t even explain it if he tried, felt like he was being insane, but the come down made him feel isolated and needy and illogically unwanted. Jonny had come back to bed a second later, with a warm cloth and a bottle of water and Patrick had felt a dread like he was going to never see Jonny again, or something equally ridiculous. 

He’d explained it to Jonny afterward, when he felt as if he’d finally come back to himself and felt tethered to his own body. He needed to know Jonny loved him, that he cared for him, that they were _okay_ and Jonny wasn’t going to leave him. 

He hated explaining it, hated asking for it, but Jonny had told him he never needed to feel ashamed. Jonny _got_ it, like he did so many things that Patrick explained poorly, and Patrick never needed to question it again. 

Patrick closes his eyes and can hear Jonny move around the hotel room. He moves gingerly to get under the covers, wanting to feel the softness all over him, all consuming, even if doing so hurts like hell. He counts to thirty in his head before the lights flick off, the bed dips and Jonny’s back by his side and with him under the sheets. 

“Sorry if this hurts,” he says softly, running a warm hand towel over Patrick’s skin. 

“Feels nice,” Patrick mumbles, reaching out a weak arm to grip at Jonny’s shoulder, just to feel him there. 

“Do you think you can sit up a bit for me?” Jonny asks and Patrick doesn’t legitimately know if he can, but Jonny pulls him up gently anyway, bunching the pillows behind his head. He’s got a bottle of Gatorade in his hand (blue, Patrick’s favourite), and Patrick laughs quietly.

“Don’t even think about trying to feed me that or whatever,” he says, voice slowly coming back to normal. “I’m not a total invalid.” 

Jonny rolls his eyes but laughs anyway, handing Patrick the open bottle. Patrick takes it gladly, understanding why Jonny wanted him to at least be partially upright. It’s a lot easier to drink the whole thing down almost in one go. 

He looks at Jonny when he’s done, and it might be dark but not dark enough that he can’t see Jonny’s face and catches him looking at him oddly. Well, not oddly, but it’s similar to the look Jonny was wearing when he told Patrick he loved him for the first time. 

“What?” Patrick asks, taking the lid from Jonny’s fingers before screwing it on the empty bottle and throwing it somewhere to the side of the room. 

Jonny puts his hand on the side of his face and leans forward to kiss him. It’s nothing, really, not any different to how he’s kissed him a million times before, but it takes the breath out of Patrick all the same. “I just think you’re amazing,” Jonny says against him, lips pressing to the corner of his mouth. 

Patrick smiles. “I am, yeah.” 

Jonny murmurs, almost like a laugh. “Your modesty is one of the top ten things I love about you.”

“What are the other nine?” 

“Being humble. Not cocky. Just generally not being a brat. Your love of Canada. Your taste in music, clothing and just most things, really. Did I say humble? I could go on.” Jonny’s voice is so flat and serious and his dead humour never fails to make Patrick laugh. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Dick.” 

Jonny laughs, properly this time, and scoops Patrick up into his arms, moving them down the bed and deeper under the covers, until they’re lying down and Patrick’s pulled tightly against his chest. 

Patrick sighs happily, content and curled into Jonny’s side. 

They lie like that for a moment, peaceful and easy and Patrick feels like he could happily drift off to sleep, but Jonny’s deep voice brings him back to himself. “You know -" he starts, but stops, as if he’s unsure of what to say. 

Patrick doesn’t say anything, hums only slightly and lets his fingers draw gentle patterns onto Jonny’s skin. 

“You know,” he tries again, “despite everything, despite us and me and - I -"

Patrick kisses him gently on his chest as encouragement. He feels like he knows what Jonny is going to say, and he wants to interrupt the train of thought before it can even come out, but he knows Jonny needs to say it. 

“If you ever wanted to sleep with someone else, or be with someone else or -" he pauses, like saying what he is, is physically hurting. It probably is. It’s kind of hurting Patrick. “If you ever wanted to leave me, that would be okay.” 

The arm Patrick has around Jonny’s middle goes rigid, his fingers digging into Jonny’s skin. Okay, so he maybe got the theme Jonny was going for but the execution is - what the _fuck_. 

“No, no,” Jonny says quickly, sensing Patrick’s panic. “No - I - no it wouldn’t be _okay_ , Pat - I would die.” 

His fingers find the side of Patrick’s face and tilt his head up, enough that even in the dark and even from the angle, they can lock eyes. Jonny looks hurt and annoyed (most definitely with himself) and Patrick’s not sure what he looks like. 

“I just mean -“ he tries, “I don’t want you ever thinking that you couldn’t or that you can’t.” 

Patrick’s mouth is in a hard line. “Can’t do what, Jonny?” 

“Can’t do what you want,” he says. “I know I get jealous and possessive and I - but - if you ever actually sat me down and told me you wanted to sleep with someone else, I would never stop you. You know that, right?” 

God, Patrick wants to punch him. “You’re such an idiot.” 

Jonny has the decency to look sheepish. “I know, but -"

“Jonny, I _know_ ,” Patrick says quickly, slightly harshly. “I know you’d never stop me from doing anything I wanted to do. I know that you seeing me hit on other people turns you on and you -" whatever, Patrick’s not explaining their own kinks to them right now. “Jon, I know you’d let me leave you for anyone I wanted, but I don’t _want_ to do that, okay?”

“Yeah - I know. Well, I mean, you never want to be too hopeful, but -"

Jesus _Christ_. “I fucking love you, Jonathan Toews. You’re it for me. The only one. You’ve been the only one, forever. From the start. So shut the fuck up with this hypothetical bullshit of me wanting to ever leave you. We get turned on by the shit that we do and it _works_. We don’t need to explain ourselves, not to each other or anyone else.” 

Jonny kisses him suddenly, his hand still cupping Patrick’s cheek and holding him firmly but gentle all at once. “Okay.” He kisses him again. “And for the record. I fucking love you too, Patrick Kane.” 

Patrick could kiss him again, he could, but he chooses to sink his teeth into the soft skin just below Jonny’s collarbone instead.

Jonny flinches. “Uh - _ow_?” 

“That was for being a tease,” Patrick smiles, kissing the skin he just assaulted. He did promise himself he’d bite Jonny for it. “And being incredibly thick.” 

Jonny’s fingers tangle in his curls. “What is it that Dylan says? You want someone who’s _thicc_? Two C’s. So that’s good, right?” 

Patrick bites him again when he starts to laugh. 

*******

Patrick’s having a nice time on the plane, he really is. He’s really absorbed in the stupid game on his phone, he got the couch seat at the back all to himself and he sort of hurts like hell, which is pretty great ‘cause every time he moves he winces and it’s a nice, gentle reminder. They’ve also restocked the snacks for the in-flight service. So it’s great. Jonny also blew him in the shower this morning and then he ate him out in return, which was also pretty fucking great. So. Patrick’s mood is pretty 10/10. Top shelf. Fucking A plus. 

Until Dylan and Alex sit down on either side of him. 

He knew having the whole couch to himself was too good to be true. 

He can’t say he’d been actively ignoring them, as he hadn’t actually _seen_ more than the tops of their heads at the front of the plane. They weren’t in the hotel restaurant at the same time for breakfast and they boarded early so, sue him. 

Seabs was in the hotel restaurant. He delightfully gave Jonny and Patrick the absolute evil eye the entire fucking time. So, yeah; definitely the room next to Jonny’s and was definitely in last night. Oh well. It can’t be as traumatising as the time he walked in on them fucking in his own house and at his own party, surely. 

But Dylan and Alex have just not been around so - that’s not exactly Patrick’s fault. 

“Hey,” he grunts, not looking away from his phone. He’s so fucking close to finishing this level of this stupid game. 

They’re both looking at him, he can tell. Bastards. 

Patrick sighs, like they’re the long suffering pains of his life (they _a_ _re_ ) and throws his phone down next to him, barely missing Dylan. “What?” He snaps, looking back and forth between both of them. They look stupidly sheepish and small, like they’re frightened of Patrick or something absurd like that. 

“Uh,” Alex tries, glancing at Dylan quickly. “Fun night?” 

Patrick stares at him for a solid five seconds, wondering how much trouble he’d be in for smothering him with a pillow. Probably not that much. “Yes,” he says blandly, “it was great. Thanks.”

“Cool, cool,” Dylan nods. “That’s great.” 

“Really great!” Alex seconds.

Patrick’s going to neck himself. “What the fuck do you want, guys?” 

They glance at each other quickly, before Alex speaks. “We just wanted to make sure we’re all good.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. 

“Like, as in, the three of us,” Dylan finishes. 

“What?” Patrick asks dumbly. Because, what?

“We didn’t mean to pry last night,” Alex says. “Like, we’re really fucking honoured you trust us to know your secret.” 

Well, Patrick wouldn’t exactly put it like _that_ , considering Alex found out and then like, immediately told Dylan.

“And, like, you know we’d never say anything to anyone. But - we just didn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Or, have you feel like you needed to share too much with us. Or something.” 

Dylan nods again. “Yeah, totally. What you guys do, that’s private. We’re sorry. But we support you, a hundred percent. You and Jonny. Always.” 

Patrick god damn _hates_ ~~loves~~ these assholes. He swears. “Guys. I should be apologising to you. Well, mostly to you, Dylan.” 

Dylan looks like he really doesn’t want to be singled out, which makes it kind of more enjoyable. 

Patrick smiles, just a bit. “I get that you asked me, but the way I treated you it - it was purely for Jonny, and you were kind of like, a weird pawn in our game and that’s not cool. Sorry man.” 

“It’s fine,” Dylan says quickly, “I seriously don’t care.” 

And the thing is, Patrick seriously doesn’t think he does, but he has to say it none the less. “Nah, I know, but - I’m still sorry. And like thanks. Both of you. For being so cool with everything.” 

They both smile at him, all sincere and _nice_ and Patrick’s not going to feel any kind of way about it. He’s _definitely_ not when they both decide to hug him at the same time. 

It’s kind of awkward, being sandwiched between them, and he doesn’t know what more to do than pat them jarringly on the back. This is definitely the weirdest thing he’s ever done on a flight back to Chicago. Probably. 

It doesn’t last long, because, you know, they’re not like, insane. 

“Okay,” he says finally, pushing them both back, “that’s enough of that.” 

They’re still smiling though, like Patrick’s done them some huge favour, and he wants to put them both in a headlock. Which he would, if he could move his body without dying a little bit from the ache of it. They should really start rethinking the whole, fucking hard and fast on game day, thing.

Patrick still wants to fuck, maybe just, more languid. More relaxed. He should probably be able to tell the difference between game bruises and sex marks. But he can’t. 

There’s this one spectacular, splotchy, dark bruise on his hip and he can’t work out if it’s from the check he took in the third or if it matches the size of Jonny’s palm. 

Patrick shifts subconsciously at the thought of it, and the movement makes him groan without consent. 

“You okay?” Dylan asks quickly, looking at Patrick like he just broke his arm whilst sitting still, or something.

“Uh, yeah,” he murmurs, trying not to grin a bit. Just a little bit. “Just, sore.” 

“Oh, right,” Dylan nods, “yeah, it was a tough game.” 

“Uh,” Alex blurts out awkwardly. “I don’t think he’s talking about the game.”

Dylan frowns. “What?” 

Patrick grins, wider this time, and Alex jumps up out of his seat. “Okay, we’re out. See you, Kaner.”

He grabs Dylan by the front of his hoodie, pulling him and his stupid dumb face off the couch. All Patrick can do is wave, laughing quietly to himself when Alex whispers something up on the tips of his toes into Dylan’s ear and Dylan trips over his own feet and irritatingly long legs. The kid is legitimately Gumby. 

Dylan looks back over his shoulder at Patrick, red faced and wearing the most ridiculous smile Patrick’s ever seen. Like he’s happy, but not, and weirdly shocked - like all his delicate sensibilities are being put to the test. Which is pretty ridiculous, as he didn’t think Dylan _had_ any delicate sensibilities. 

He has every intent of going back to his phone, maybe stretching out and trying to get a nap, but his perfect idea of peace is rudely interrupted by Jonny throwing himself down on the couch barely two seconds later. 

They’re close enough that their thighs are touching. 

(And it’s not a rude interruption at all.)

“Hello,” Patrick says, biting down on his bottom lip to stop himself from smiling too much. 

“Hello,” Jonny replies, smiling openly. “I was going to talk to you before, but you were clearly busy.” 

Patrick aims for a grin, but it comes out fond more than anything else. “Oh, yeah, Dyl and Alex were suggesting we have a threesome. You’re cool with that, right?” 

Jonny stares at him, blankly, for four - maybe five - seconds, before he’s laughing. Laughing and laughing like a moron. 

He pulls Patrick into a headlock, much like Patrick had wanted to do to the boys, but Jonny is much stronger and bigger and quicker on his feet after game day. 

“Get off, you big fucker,” Patrick laughs, not even trying to fight him. Patrick does want to tell him it hurts, that his body is telling him _no_ , but - he kind of likes it. He kind of likes Jonny. 

Jonny’s vice around the back of his neck becomes soft, gentle, moving to hold Patrick’s shoulders instead and rests them both back against the couch. 

Jonny’s warm against his side and puts his chin on the top of Patrick’s head, just for a second. It’s nice, and Patrick takes it for the intimacy it is, but knows if anyone were to look back at them they’d just look casual, relaxed, a captain and his winger. Patrick sort of hates that. 

Patrick hates a lot of things; wants so many things he can’t have. 

“You’re a dick,” Jonny says fondly. “Nice try.” 

Patrick laughs, pressing his knuckles into Jonny’s thigh. “It’s always worth a shot.” 

He turns his head to look at Jonny properly, close enough that all he’d have to do is lean forward, barely a few inches, and he could kiss him. 

He could, it would be so easy. It would be so easy to put his hand to Jonny’s face, to brush his thumb over his cheekbone. So easy to whisper he loved him, over and over again until Jonny was telling him to shut _up_ \- but he’d say it back just as many times. 

It would be so easy to love Jonny so openly and honestly, but he can’t. 

Instead, he’ll settle. He’ll settle for an arm around his shoulders and a smile in his direction because ultimately, he is Jonny’s and Jonny is his. 

Nothing will ever change that. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! 
> 
> [twitter.](https://mobile.twitter.com/solizabeth_)
> 
> [tumblr.](https://pkanerr.tumblr.com/)


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